


Witch-Burning

by resident_random_writer



Category: Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Dialogue Light, Execution, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resident_random_writer/pseuds/resident_random_writer
Summary: A medieval/fantasy Teen Titans AU inspired by the poem “Witch-Burning” by Mary Elizabeth Counselman.Very prose-y, not much dialogue, and kind of dark (which is the only reason I tagged it Teen and Up.) If that’s not your speed, keep scrolling. If you wish to read my humble tale, proceed, my good fellow or lady or personage!
Kudos: 4





	Witch-Burning

_They burned a witch in Bingham Square_

_Last Friday afternoon._

_The faggot-smoke was blacker than_

_The shadows on the moon;_

_The licking flames were strangely green_

_Like fox-fire on the fen…_

_And she who cursed the godly folk_

_Will never curse again._

She had brought plague to the village, or so they said. They blamed her for the outbreak of sickness that had felled perhaps eight or nine people. That did make sense- she was new to the area, a traveler. In all likelihood, she had brought the illness with her. But the accusations of witchcraft? Those were far less likely. However, the people needed a scapegoat, and the strange girl had been the unlucky victim. There was nothing to be done.

The lord’s son wore a sword at his hip, but it was purely for show. How he wished he did not have to see this, but there was no help for it. His father was a lord, simply too busy to watch a witch die, and too careful to leave the villagers to do it themselves. There must be a noble present, and the task had fallen to him. And so he stood, grim-faced, at the side of the rough wooden platform in the village square.

There were not many executions here in this sleepy little village. Punishments were few and far between, and generally mild, ranging from a fine to a few days in the village lock-up. The harsher ones were only dealt out once every two years or so- the whipping post that stood at the edge of the platform, for example, had been employed only three times, and the branding irons tucked beneath the boards had rusted with disuse. As for executions, there had been only five in a hundred years, all of them carried out using the gallows at the other side of the platform. But hanging was too good for a witch, and besides, who could tell whether she would simply transform herself into a bat or cat or crow and slip the noose at the last moment? No, it was the stake for her, and nothing else. The villagers had demanded it, and the lord could not risk an uprising. The peasants could not be provoked into becoming a mob.

The lord’s son watched as the villagers began to fill the square, jostling each other for position and casually remarking on what they expected to see today. They seemed nearly excited, not as they had been when the carpenter had been hung for murder six years ago. Then they had been tense and silent, since it was one of their own being put to death. The witch-girl was a stranger, and they did not know her, so they did not care whether or not she lived or died. Her execution was to be something of a show.

It made the lord’s son sick. He shifted his stance as the square filled, his yellow cloak brushing his legs. He had dressed for the occasion, as was proper. The villagers were wearing brighter colors than their everyday clothes, as well, but the lord’s son stood out in his red and green and yellow. He had dressed for a celebration in order to oversee an execution. It was not right. He wished he could stop it, but there was nothing to be done.

_They burned a witch in Bingham Square_

_Before the village gate._

_A huswife raised a skinny hand_

_To damn her, tense with hate._

_A huckster threw a jagged stone-_

_Her pallid cheek ran red…_

_But there was something scornful in_

_The way she held her head._

The watchman’s apprentice had been standing ready at the front of the crowd. His broad shoulders and gleaming armor gave him the appearance of a knight, save for the fact that he was not to rescue the terrified maiden, but to prepare her to die. He, too, hated his task, but there was nothing to be done.

The watchman nodded to him, and the apprentice followed his master to the village lock-up. The small, squat building sat at the very edge of the village, far enough from the square that they could not see or hear the crowd. The watchman had the key, and the apprentice stood guard as he unlocked the door and stepped in.

The witch-girl had been held here for three days while her fate was decided. Her pointed face was pale and drawn, and her skin was a sickly gray. Her hands and feet bore the weight of heavy shackles. Typically, prisoners who were to be put to death were stripped down to their underclothes, perhaps given a simple shift to wear. But the town had never seen a witch before now, and they thought the girl looked more like one with her own clothing. She wore a hooded cloak, reminiscent of a monk’s habit, save for its color of deep purple-blue. The hood fell over her face, shadowing her eyes, as the watchman gripped her arm and jerked her roughly up, driving her before him down the rough path to the square. The apprentice brought up the rear, on alert for any sign of rescue and privately hoping there would be one.

The crowd sent up a mocking roar as the watchman, the apprentice, and the witch-girl appeared. The people surged forward, all trying to get a better view of the execution platform, but they all left the path clear, not wanting to delay the scene in any way. The witch-girl stumbled and fell, her hood falling back, and the watchman seized her short-cropped hair and jerked her back to her feet, shoving her forward. The apprentice clenched his teeth at the needless cruelty as the witch-girl reached up and replaced her hood.

A housewife at the crowd’s edge raised a fist as the witch-girl passed, spewing out a curse. The woman’s young son had been one of those taken by the plague, and the housewife’s grief became hate at the sight of the one she held responsible. The woman’s action seemed to spur the rest of the people, and they began cursing and taunting the witch-girl, hurling cruel words and a few rotten fruits and vegetables at her. One man leaned down and picked up a stone, flinging it at the witch-girl.

She flinched as the stone struck her cheek, leaving a shallow gash in its wake. A bead of red blood fell like a teardrop down her face. The witch-girl raised her chained hands to the wound, wiping the blood away, but she did not speak. She was silent as the crowd screamed their hatred of her, silent as the watchman drove her up to the platform where the stake and the bundles of wood waited.

_They burned a witch in Bingham Square;_

_Her eyes were terror-wild._

_She was a slight, a comely maid,_

_No taller than a child._

_They bound her fast against the stake_

_And laughed to see her fear…_

_Her red lips muttered secret words_

_That no one dared to hear._

The watchman pushed the witch-girl against the stake and took the chains from her hands and feet. He bound her tightly with coarse, thick ropes, a sneer on his face. The witch-girl seemed to have accepted her fate. She did not struggle or resist, letting the watchman tie her to the stake. He took no risks, binding her as tight as possible until she could barely move. The crowd roared its approval. The girl was a stranger, after all. What did they care about her, save to ensure that she died? Witches were witches.

There was another stranger in the throng, although they were unaware. And a good thing, too- if the peasants were willing to burn a simple girl on suspicion of witchcraft, what more would they do if they discovered that the thin boy in the hooded cloak was not one of their kind? He had slipped in from the shadows of the forest that surrounded the village, concealed in a cloak and gloves, his face shrouded in the hood. None of the villagers thought to peer beneath the hood, with their attention on the witch-girl. And so none of them saw that the hooded boy’s ears were pointed, and his teeth were sharp, and his skin was emerald green.

The elf-boy stayed on the sides of the crowd, ready to slip away if any of the people chanced to catch a glimpse of his inhuman features. None of them recognized him for what he was- they simply took him for a stranger who had heard there was to be an execution and had come to the village to watch. No one even questioned his hood and gloves- the day the witch was to be put to death had dawned as cold and gray as the condemned girl’s face. Most of the peasants, in fact, wore wraps of some kind to shelter them from the chill. A few of the ones who had accused the witch-girl in the beginning had even whispered that the weather was her doing- it was only a week after Midsummer, after all. It should have been hot and humid, not almost as frosty as winter. Magic must be to blame, and they had a witch among them. She had caused a plague- why not an unnatural cold? Whatever the cause of the chill, there was nothing to be done.

Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, and the elf-boy looked up. He slipped closer to the platform, not quite in the front of the crowd, but near enough to see clearly what was happening. The village priest was speaking to the witch, loud enough for those at the front to hear. It was not a kind comfort to a girl about to die. The priest condemned her sins and her soul, for his wife had fallen ill, too, although she had recovered. The witch-girl did not answer him. The priest turned and walked from the platform, and some village men began to pile the firewood about the stake. The watchman ran to fetch a torch.

Rain began to fall, slow and drizzling. The torch fizzled and died, and the crowd shouted their disapproval. They were tired of standing and waiting for the witch-girl to be made an example of. The priest tried to calm the crowd, and the watchman darted from house to house until he found one with lit coals. He stayed under the thatched roof, protecting the flame until it was well and truly time to burn the witch. The people began to grow restless- suppose the torch should die again? Suppose the rain did not let up? The witch-girl would be returned to prison, and they would have to wait to watch her be put to death. It would be a disappointing day, but there was nothing to be done.

While they waited, their number increased by one. Another newcomer hovered behind the rest of the audience, clad like a noblewoman in a fine silk dress and glittering jewelry. She, too, was hooded, her hair covered by a headdress, her face veiled with a wisp of pink satin, and a rich fur cape draped over her shoulders. The few that noticed her whispered excitedly- there was no litter or carriage that could have brought her, and she had not arrived with the usual procession and pomp that accompanied someone so obviously wealthy. Who was this girl? Some noble who had stopped by to watch the execution? Perhaps a princess from a far kingdom who had been cursed by the witch seeking to see justice done?

The girl was none of these. If the villagers had seen the hair she hid beneath the cloth, they would have gasped in shock at its bright pink color. Her eyes were the only clue as to her identity- they shone a brilliant, unnatural green. She was not as tall as she appeared, either, for her long skirt hid the fact that her feet did not touch the ground. Every hint as to what she was had been hidden carefully, down to the gossamer wings tied flat against her back.

The ones who had guessed that the girl was a princess were right, by half. She was a princess, although not of any kingdom they knew. The girl was a faerie, for what other creature could simply appear where they had not been a moment ago? She had come by magic, though they did not know it, and she would leave the same way once the execution was over.

The faerie’s pretty face was tight behind her veil. She could do nothing to stop the witch-girl from being put to death. She was kind-hearted, she did not want to watch this. But she was helpless, her hands tied as much as the witch-girl’s. Her magic could not turn away the hatred and mistrust that had condemned the witch-girl to die. Whether the girl was innocent or guilty, the crowd had determined that she would die today, and the strongest fay magic could not change that. There was nothing to be done.

_They burned a witch in Bingham Square-_

_But ere she swooned with pain_

_And ere her bones were sodden ash_

_Beneath the sudden rain,_

_She set her mark upon that throng…_

_For time cannot erase_

_The echo of her anguished cries,_

_The memory of her face._

Despite the rain, the torch stayed lit this time. Still, the watchman was careful as he mounted the steps to the platform. The men had finished heaping the firewood around the witch’s stake. The witch-girl’s feet kept slipping from the logs- she had pushed herself up onto the pile of wood, in a pitiful attempt to delay her death as long as possible. Perhaps she still hoped someone would rescue her. But there was nothing to be done.

The watchman paused for a moment, his eyes turning from the crowd, now breathless as they waited for him to light the wood, to the witch-girl, struggling to keep her feet steady on the unstable heap of firewood. In a moment of cruelty, he stooped forward and seized the trailing edge of the witch-girl’s dark cloak, spreading it out on the logs. The rough fabric would go up in flames the second the fire grew close enough to set it alight. The witch-girl’s eyes followed his every move.

The watchman had a flair for the dramatic. He leaned in close, examining the witch-girl’s small, pointed face and large eyes. Her eyes looked somewhat like a deer’s- soft, velvety, purple things they were, and strangely, there was no fear in them. The watchman frowned.

He held the torch up to her face, making her turn her cheek to try to avoid the heat. The watchman raised his voice so the entire crowd could hear, and his speech was drenched in hate. “Any last words, witch?”

The witch-girl bowed her head, her eyes closing. She broke the silence she had kept until now with a few desperate, whispered words. “I told you before,” she said softly, although somehow the whole crowd heard her. “I am not a witch.”

The lord’s son looked to the apprentice, and the apprentice looked from him to the elf-boy, and the elf-boy looked from him to the faerie, and the faerie looked from him to the lord’s son, and all four of them looked to the witch-girl. 

And the witch-girl lifted her head and opened her eyes, and they were as red as the blood on her cheek.

“I am so much worse,” she said.

The ropes fell from her of their own accord. She chanted three strange words that none save her could understand, and suddenly her hands were surrounded in black light. The torch went out and relit itself, blazing black, and when the watchman dropped it onto the stage in shock, it would not set the platform alight. Black magic covered the square like the witch-girl's cloak, but a thousand times larger. The villagers cried out in shock, and most of them turned to flee, several screaming in terror. A few more foolish than the rest charged forward, but the witch-girl’s magic blasted them back.

She stepped down from the platform, and any people who had lingered fled at the sight of her. Only four figures were left- the lord’s son, the watchman’s apprentice, the elfin boy, and the faerie princess. The witch-girl raised her hood when she neared them, and as the shadows fell over her blood-red eyes and obscured them, the black magic faded from the village square, leaving only a few pieces of rope and an unlit torch on the stage as proof that there had been an execution planned. The rain was falling more heavily now.

Lightning cracked across the sky like a whip, and the black magic suddenly enveloped the five young figures. The next moment, they had vanished.

The crowd slowly began to filter back into the square, murmuring and whispering to themselves. Slowly, their talk turned from fearful to angry. Their execution was ruined, their victim gone, a witch on the loose- for she was a witch, after all!

But there was nothing to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> Um...I have no idea what this is or why I wrote it. Basically I read a poem, decided it reminded me of Raven, and churned out this...thing in three hours. I like it, but it’s just kind of weird. Maybe I’ll add more if the mood strikes or if I find another poem that somehow inspires me. Enjoy, and thanks for reading! I’d love if you left me a comment or kudos!


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